


the taste of your tears

by empty_throne



Category: Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Crueltide, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:17:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5316518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empty_throne/pseuds/empty_throne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Tashir never interrupted Vanyel that Sovvan Night? What if Vanyel was left with nothing but his illusions for company?</p>
            </blockquote>





	the taste of your tears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eirenne Saijima (ladypoetess)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypoetess/gifts).



> Title is from Nine Inch Nails' "Something I Can Never Have."

The image hovered in front of Vanyel, motionless in air: Tylendel, exactly as he’d been in life.

It was an illusion, of course. Vanyel was alone on the porch, with no company but the afternoon’s warmth breathing out out of the stones around him. He’d come out here for solitude, and had started building illusions for distraction. But whoever he tried to craft, they all turned into Tylendel, until he gave in and made the image his heart ached to see.

Not that it ached any less afterward. All Vanyel was doing was tearing the scabs off his wounds, and he knew it. But he couldn’t focus on anything else--couldn’t face the usual Sovvan Night traditions, couldn’t distract himself with something other than his grief. Easier just to surrender to it, to taunt himself with this false Tylendel, perfect in every detail.

No--not perfect. Because Tylendel was never like that, posed still as a statue and just as lifeless. Even when he slept, it was in a sprawl, taking up far more of the bed than simple geometry should allow. His chest rose and fell, and his body hummed with the force of the spirit inside. Only when--

Vanyel choked back a sob. Only when Tylendel lay dead in the Grove had he looked like this. Whatever the Heralds had done to make his body whole, it was flawless; there was no sign of Tylendel’s long fall from the Tower, or the anguish that had ravaged him before then. Stav’s death, and Gala’s repudiation.

Vanyel’s failure to save him.

The pain wrenched at his gut, making Vanyel wrap his arms around himself as if that would stop anything. Without him making any conscious choice, the illusion changed. It was Sovvan Night, after all. A night to mourn the dead. A night for the dead to walk.

Grief darkened the eyes of the illusory Tylendel, and madness dragged at his mouth. _Yes._ It hurt, but it was true. This was ’Lendel as Vanyel had known him last, the ’Lendel who sacrificed everything--even Van--to get vengeance for his brother’s death. Those gentle hands curled into fists, tendons rising in the forearms.

“’Lendel,” Van choked out, his lips barely forming the name. He staggered, sank to his knees. “I’m sorry.”

_Ashke._

For an instant he thought he imagined it. A memory of Tylendel’s voice, whispering his Tayledras endearment, the clever play on Vanyel’s family name.

But no--he heard it with his ears.

He knew, before he even looked up, what was happening. He’d used illusions enough on the Karsite Border, bigger ones than this, more complex. He was the most powerful Herald-Mage in Valdemar. Making a simple image talk was child’s play. And making it say what he wanted to hear--

But it was ’Lendel’s voice, down to the finest timbre, ’Lendel as he had been before he died. Not the cheerful lover, the strong voice that promised him Withen would never find out. No, what Vanyel heard was the tormented, broken young man he had lost that night. It was a lie, but it _felt_ true ... and Vanyel couldn’t make himself stop. He should unravel the illusion, but he couldn’t.

Tears spilled down his face, hot in the cool night air. “Beloved,” he whispered, staring into Tylendel’s dark, lost eyes. He wanted to say, _forgive me._ The words wouldn’t come. He’d done everything ’Lendel had asked, and it wasn’t enough. Was _too much._ Maybe there was never any way to save him. The gods had simply decreed that Vanyel Ashkevron should love, without reservation, without hope; and then he should lose, irrevocably and forever, and be alone.

_Ashke,_ the illusion said again, and reached out for him.

Vanyel lurched to his feet. His own hands came up, preparing to banish the image. He never should have let it go this far, making it move, making it talk. He was only tormenting himself.

But on Sovvan Night, did he deserve anything else?

He stumbled forward before he could think better of it, two steps and into Tylendel’s embrace. He poured power as he went, not even sure what he was doing, but he was the most powerful Herald-Mage in Valdemar and surely all those Gifts had to be good for something.

’Lendel’s arms closed around him. It shouldn’t have been possible; he was an illusion, nothing more, and illusions weren’t solid. But Vanyel felt the pressure. No warmth--of course not. Even an illusion couldn’t fake that, no matter what half-aware trickery Van pulled with his Mage-Gift. This wasn’t really ’Lendel, no matter what it looked like or sounded like or--

Tylendel’s mouth closed over his, and conscious thought vanished. Vanyel melted into the contact, opening himself to ’Lendel as if he was sixteen again and only just discovering his desires. The kiss was rough and desperate, Tylendel moving as if to devour him. Vanyel was hard before he knew it, hard enough to ache, and _alive_ as he hadn’t felt since the night ’Lendel died. This was what was missing with his other lovers, this passion, the all-consuming _need._ It hadn’t gone away, not in twelve long, empty years--and if the only way Vanyel could fill that void was with lies ...

_I’ve tried truth, and it’s gotten me nothing but pain._

One rough swipe of his hand pulled the collar of ’Lendel’s shirt askew, baring his shoulder. Vanyel bit down on it and heard ’Lendel gasp in return. His lover’s hand slipped between his thighs, strong and sure, and Vanyel shuddered as fingers wrapped around his cock. He ground into the touch, clutching at ’Lendel’s back. He didn’t care anymore how far he went; he’d already gone too far. Nobody ever came out to this porch. Nobody would be walking among the cypresses beneath, not at this hour. He could give in to his craving, sate himself with lies, and for once in his gods-damned life since ’Lendel died, pretend he was happy.

He clawed his way out of his shirt, snapping the laces in his hurry. ’Lendel pushed him back, against the wall, up onto the bench he’d been sitting on a moment before; the stone of the keep was cold and rough against Vanyel’s bare back. Lips settled on his chest, kissing, sucking, fixing themselves over one nipple and drawing hard until Van had to bite down to keep from moaning too loudly. His hips bucked again, into the stroking hand. ’Lendel had him pinned, but he let go when Van’s knees gave out, dropping him in a heap on the bench, almost on the floor. And then ’Lendel was right there in front of him, and Van knew the illusion was perfect, inside and out. Falling that last distance to the floor, he unlaced the breeches, drew Tylendel’s shaft out, and sank his mouth down on it in one swift move.

_Yes._ ’Lendel had taught him this, as he’d taught Van so many other things. For an instant Van could ignore the harshness of the stone beneath his knees, the freezing air that made his skin shudder, the thousand signs that told him they weren’t back in Haven, in the haven of Savil’s suite. He abandoned all artistry and just sucked, desperately, swallowing down Tylendel’s cock over and over again, feeling it swell and shift in his mouth while ’Lendel’s fingers tangled in his hair, stroking, tugging, that familiar voice hissing _ashke_ over and over again as he moved.

But it wasn’t enough. Van’s other partners had been few, and every one of them too over-awed by the Herald-Mage, Shadowstalker, Demonsbane, to be anything other than obliging. He didn’t want them to be, because none of them could be Tylendel.

Tonight, he could have what he craved.

He let the cock slide from his mouth, trailing saliva after. Looking up, he saw ’Lendel gazing down at him, eyes hungry and wide. “Please,” Vanyel whispered, shaking and abject in his need.

And ’Lendel smiled, that beautiful, heart-breaking, heart-broken smile.

Vanyel’s breeches were around his thighs before he was even done turning. The bench was right there, a convenient height to drape himself over as ’Lendel knelt behind him. He’d done nothing to prepare himself, but it didn’t matter.

He felt his lover’s hands settle around his hips, and then Tylendel was inside him.

Van bit his forearm to contain his cry. _Gods._ Tears spilled down his cheeks, joy and grief together. The pain was nothing. ’Lendel’s thrusts were a familiar rhythm, not forgotten in twelve long years, and he sank back against them as if none of that time had ever passed. As if ’Lendel were still alive, and Vanyel had found a way to save him--to save them both. Van was shuddering with cold, but he braced himself with one hand and wrapped the other around his own aching cock, stroking in counterpoint to ’Lendel’s movements. His climax would be the release he could never find, on his own or with other men.

_Ashke,_ Tylendel whispered. He bent over Vanyel’s straining body, breath hot against his cheek. _We will be together again._

And Vanyel knew, distantly, that something was wrong.

His fingers were ice, his feet numb. It had been cold the night Tylendel died, but not this night; the air was no more than pleasantly cool. Why was he so cold? And ’Lendel was warm, warm, his skin against Vanyel’s shuddering back, his cock like a burning brand within him. Warm and real and almost alive.

Van hovered on the knife-edge of bliss. Tylendel thrust into him again and again, driving Van’s own cock into his rigid hand, and Van could feel the power draining out of him at a terrifying rate, a flood pouring from his own Gift into the illusion he had built. Sacrificing everything he had, to make Tylendel live again for these brief moments.

And he could have what he wanted. Release--of his body, of his life. No more duty on the Karsite Border. No more watching Randale sicken and die. No more blades tearing at his flesh, demons invading his mind. He could be with Tylendel at last.

Somewhere, far away behind the barriers he had put up, he could hear Yfandes screaming.

He could do as Tylendel had, and--give up.

With a gut-wrenching cry, Vanyel severed the conduit between him and the illusion. Tylendel vanished, like the mirage he had been. Van was left empty and cold, spending himself helplessly into his own hand, seed striping his fingers and dotting the stone below.

It wasn’t a release.

He sagged against the bench, then slipped to the floor. It was warm against his back, the dregs of the day’s heat returning a fraction of what he’d thrown away. Vanyel’s shirt lay within arm’s reach, and his breeches were tangled around his knees, proof of how he’d surrendered himself to his own weakness.

He knew from the start that it was an illusion, a lie of his own making. But for a while there ... he’d stopped caring.

But Vanyel was too much a Herald to give up now, no matter how heavy his burdens had grown. He wouldn’t die, chasing a happiness he could no longer have. He would just go on. Alone.

Until his end came for him.


End file.
